Thirst Read online

  THIRST

  a novel

  KAE BELL

  Copyright © 2016 Kae Bell

  All Rights Reserved

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, business establishments or locales is purely coincidental.

  Chapter 1

  By acreage, it was not a large farm, 300 acres, plus or minus, depending on whom you spoke with at town hall.

  Mr. Banks liked things small. He knew his ninety milking cows by sight, when they stepped into the milking parlor in the early morning, smelling of grass. He knew which ones were excellent milkers and which were mean bitches one poorly timed crap away from hamburger.

  Most of all, Banks knew his land: Every acre of the rolling New York hills. Posted and patrolled.

  In a light morning fog, seated on his tractor, Mr. Banks made slow progress cutting hay in his largest, eastern-most field bordered by the state land. This was the season’s second cut. Behind him, the mower whirred as it chopped the thin stalks. Banks squinted into the low sun, rising into a cloudless sky. Banks hoped the day was hot as predicted. Hay needed the dry heat.

  Behind him, the mower’s metal blades turned, slicing hay with sharp edges. The engine droned like a snoring monster. At the row’s end, Flint turned the tractor to mow in the other direction. He was ten feet in when over the thrum of his tractor he heard a thump from behind.

  It was a sound he knew. Thirty years on the tractor and you heard a few things in the field. Some sounds were welcome. This one was not.

  Metal against flesh.

  Banks braked, slowing the tractor to a hard stop. He turned to hear anything more from behind the mower, but heard only the engine’s chug. He cut the engine and in the morning quiet, he heard a second sound.

  Pain. The creature caught unawares by his unforgiving blades. Whatever his mower had run over, it was screaming in pain. Banks heard its high-pitched wail of distress.

  “Uuungh!”

  The sound flowed, rising higher and higher into the morning’s silence, the noise swallowed by blue sky. Then it ceased.

  Stepping from his seat, his foot on the wheel as he hopped down, Banks landed in the uncut hay that reached halfway up the large tractor wheels. He walked slowly back through the hay. Toward the mower.

  He was ten or eleven feet away, when the sound came again, this time weaker, less a complaint and more an acceptance, like air let out of a tire.

  Banks’ stomach turned.

  “Uuuunghhhhhhhh…”

  The sound ended in a whimper. Banks stopped. Some things were so damn unpleasant a man wanted to wait a moment before moving ahead, whether to steel himself against the inevitable or to simply enjoy one more moment of calm, who could say. Finally, Banks compelled his feet forward, one step at a time, reminding himself that a farmer was of the seasons, that which lived and died.

  By the mower, Banks stared hard at the tree line, his hand resting on the sharp blades, still warm from the morning’s cut. The blades curved in an efficient harmony, reflecting the rising sun. The smell of cut hay was strong here. Birds sang in the high branches of the pine trees that lined the field’s edge.

  Banks took a slow breath and looked down. There, in the freshly cut hay, beyond where Banks had stopped the blades of the mower and cut the tractor’s engine, lay a bloody pile of skin, blood, and bones. The smell of iron lifted on the breeze. Banks caught the scent. As he took one more step forward, he felt sick.

  The jumble of what had clearly been a human was tangled in the cut hay. It was a bloodied mess.

  Banks stared at the pile, as a breeze shook the treetops on the wood’s edge. Another step forward for him and the mess came into focus.

  A bloody human face, the forehead sheared off, stared up at Mr. Banks. Mr. Banks didn’t recognize the man, which gave him a slight sense of relief amidst the panic he was feeling. The body, sliced to near ribbons by the industrial mower, was still.

  In an early stage of shock, Banks looked away, his chest heaving. He could feel the heat congeal in his stomach and the acid burst up his esophagus. He bent over and lost his breakfast of three scrambled eggs and crisp toast with tart blackberry jam made from the berry bushes lining the dirt road.

  When he stood, he wiped his mouth on his shirt and peered east, to the field’s edge, lined with pine trees. Did he see movement in the shadows? Or was it the nausea? The shock?

  Above the trees, puffy white clouds had appeared, hiding the sun. Banks turned away from the blades and the body.

  The uncut field stretched before him. What a shame, he thought, to lose the crop.

  He walked through the uncut hay, down the hill to his farmhouse and his wife.

  *******

  At the four-way stop, a tractor stopped to turn right down a dirt road. The sports car idling behind it revved its engine and bolted through the intersection, its alloy wheels kicking up grit. A hand appeared from the front passenger window to give the farmer the finger. Already halfway down the lane, the farmer was unaware.

  Meg watched this from the wood’s edge, her back set against a tree trunk. From here, she could see everything interesting: the road to town, the fields, and of course, the farmhouse itself, at the bottom of the hill. From the farmhouse, fields extended up the hill and east, to the edge of the dense state land, heavily wooded forest where coyotes yowled at night. The fields themselves were lush this summer, the hay flourishing in the heat. Flowers too. Purple, yellow, and orange wildflowers lined the fields. Clover, Buttercups, and Paintbrush. Drunk from pollen, bees stumbled among the blossoms.

  The rough dirt road kept through traffic to a minimum. On a daily basis, only the milkman and an occasional hunter would pass by. Fluffy brown cattails grew in the road’s ditch, flooded from an earlier downpour.

  From this spot, Meg could not see her own house, which was farther up the road, at the top of the hill. A thick wood separated the two properties. And happily, she thought, her parents could not see her. Specifically, her mother.

  Nor could her stupid brothers.

  In the shade of this tree, Meg felt like her family was a thousand miles away.

  She wished they were.

  Meg’s stomach growled. She was hungry. Dinner was a long ways off and breakfast, which had consisted of cookies she’d had in her pocket from yesterday, was hours ago. She’d missed lunch.

  It had been two hours since Meg had heard her mom call her for lunch. Mrs. Flint had even walked down the hill from the house to the Bank's farm, in that slow way she had, every limb registering the annoyance of having interrupted an otherwise delightful and carefree life to have three wayward children. She’d called for Meg several times, each time the name growing more shrill. Hidden by the tall hay, Meg had watched her mom’s head turn left and right, her eyes seeking movement. Finally, her mom had shrugged and walked back up the hill to the house.

  Meg had felt a twinge of guilt. But she was still angry.

  Her brothers had arrived last night, after five weeks at sleep away camp. Filled with bravado from campfires and night hikes.

  Meg had been told (‘asked’ her mother said) to give the boys her bedroom, since it had the two twin beds. The summerhouse was cozy, with only two bedrooms for the family of five. In summers past, the boys had slept outside in a big tent. But the arrival of the coyotes had put an end to that. So Meg had moved out to the sun porch, which was fine with her - it had windows on three sides, a sofa bed, and a TV, which mom had said she could watch whenever she wanted, if she kept the volume low. Best of all, Meg could watch the moon rise and listen to the bugs, loud this far out in the country, as she fell sleep. This pleased her. br />
  But last night, she’d hated seeing her brothers’ expressions as they closed the door to her old bedroom, smirking at her, until she heard the click of the lock.

  She didn’t feel guilty for wishing that the twins had stayed at camp all summer. She loved the cabin without her brothers crashing around in it, destroying or shooting everything in sight. The days were sunnier in the silence.

  Mom had insisted that the boys return for the last two weeks of summer vacation before school began, when Daddy took his vacation.

  Her brothers had not waited a minute to begin their pranks.

  When Meg had woken up this morning, her neck was itchy. She scratched her neck and felt around her pillows. In between the fluffy down pillows, her hand closed on a thick chunk of hair. Meg pulled it forward into the day’s early light.

  It was her hair. Six jagged inches of it.

  Staring at this, seeing her summer highlights catch the morning light, Meg had figured her brothers had planned this at camp. Had been waiting all summer to do this. Sneaking out after she was asleep, scissors in hand, concealing their snickery laughter.

  Dazed at her discovery and still only half awake, Meg had heard feet shuffling and muffled giggling from behind the door into the main house.

  Her brothers were hiding. And watching her. Waiting for her reaction. She knew from past experience, they hoped she would cry. Or scream. And, of course, tell Mom. They’d started calling her ‘tattle tail’ a year ago.

  Meg clutched her cut hair. She would not react. She would not.

  She must not.

  Instead, Meg had slid off the bed. Grabbed scissors from the sewing basket. With jerky motions, the angle awkward but effective, she sliced off her remaining long hair. Strands littered the floor like autumn leaves. She’d felt the back of her head. Good enough. Then she’d slipped out the porch door, closing it gently.

  Outside, she’d seen the farmer Mr. Banks already mowing in the field. Stop his tractor and hop down. Meg had hurried down the road to her favorite hiding spot.

  She’d been gone since then.

  She was getting hungry. Her stomach growled again. In the morning, she'd noticed the blackberry bushes on her way down the hill. Heavy with fruit. Meg pictured the berries, could almost taste the dusky sweetness. Her mouth watered. She should have saved one of the cookies.

  From her perch, Meg watched the tractor drive along the curve at the bottom of the road where the runoff never fully dried and mosquitoes swarmed thick around dank puddles that remained days after a storm. Mr. Banks must be done for the day, she thought. She’d seen him come and go a couple times across the morning, on a different tractor each time.

  A breeze rippled across the field. Tall stalks brushed together, hissing in protest.

  Meg’s ears perked up. Over the wind, she heard a murmur of conversation. Careful to stay hidden, she poked her head above the hay to see who it was.

  There they were. Her stupid brothers, walking down the hill, ambling along, filled with lunch and mischief.

  Meg’s heart sank. They might take the shortcut across the field and find her hiding place. Of course, they’d laugh at her hair. They’d call her names. Just thinking about the possibilities, Meg despaired. Her afternoon was spoilt.

  Once more, she poked her head above the hay. Her brothers were halfway down the big hill, still a good ways from the farm. They’d stopped to chuck rocks at squirrels.

  She doubted they could see into the barn’s shadow that fell across the road like a blanket. If she moved now, she could make it. Staying low, Meg made a beeline across the field. Her feet made small footprints in the soft earth.

  Stepping out from the field, she crossed the dirt road to the barn, glancing once up the hill. Her brothers were fixated on something in a tree.

  She stepped into the barn’s shadow. A tall wooden structure, three stories high, the barn was the center of activity on the Banks farm. It housed the milking parlor, the cows, and the hay that Mr. Banks harvested each summer to feed his herd in winter.

  Somewhere inside, cows lowed. This late in the season, the pastures were thin from grazing. Plus, it was almost time for chores.

  Meg stood by the barn’s wide sliding door. The red paint was peeling in some places. Meg knew the barn was off-limits to the kids, forbidden to Meg and her brothers by Mom, under penalty of being grounded for life or worse. Dad had said it was fun, he’d played there as a boy. But Mom had prevailed.

  But Meg was certain that Mister Banks wouldn’t mind. He and Mrs. Banks invited the family all to dinner at least once a week. He never minded when kids got silly and giggly at the dinner table or when Meg spilled juice on the floor. He was just one of those men that didn’t mind.

  And more, she felt like Mr. Banks would understand. That he would see her new haircut, see her brothers gallivanting down the road and he would get it. He would wink at Meg like he did sometimes and say, “Now, you go right on ahead, little Miss.”

  Sitting by the barn, a calico cat missing half an ear mewled loudly at Meg. Meg bent to scratch the cat’s head. Several feet away, in the safety of the weeds, other barn cats crouched, watching. Meg saw their cautious ears and tails poking above the tall grass.

  The voices were closer now. Meg glanced up. Her brothers were almost to the base of the hill and had stopped to yell at the cows. Meg wished one would charge at them. But the cows stood, dazed by the heat, swishing their tails against the endless flies.

  Meg grasped the edge of the barn door and pushed it sideways on its casters, making space to slip inside. She pushed the door closed and breathed in the dark barn.

  Outside, her brothers’ voices grew louder. They were arguing.

  “Dad said they didn't find his head.”

  “Naw, that’s not what he said. He said ‘hands’. They didn’t find his hands. They need to fingerprint him. What do they need his head for anyway?”

  “It could be anybody if they don’t find his head. That head is still in the field. I’m gonna find it!” Her oldest brother Justin.

  “They need his fingerprints, so can tell his family he’d dead.”

  “And they don't need his head for that?”

  Meg heard their feet shuffle in the dirt as they approached the barn, Jason’s lazy gait dragging along the road, always a step behind Justin.

  She wished they’d keep moving.

  No luck.

  Meg heard Jason call out in a falsetto voice: “Here kitty kitty kitty.”

  The friendly calico outside the barn door meowed.

  Run away, cat! Meg thought.

  Footsteps approach the barn door. Then a sharp yelp of pain and a feline yowl of displeasure.

  “Oww! It scratched me!” Jason whined.

  “You were dumb to pick it up.”

  “I’m bleeding! Stupid cat.” Pebbles hit the barn door.

  “Who cares? Let’s go find that head.”

  “The hands.”

  “Whatever. Come on.” The cat forgotten, the boys shuffled away.

  Meg heard their footsteps recede. She’d been holding her breath as they talked. Now she exhaled sharply and gulped in air. It smelled strongly of hay and fresh manure. Smells that reminded her of summer vacation.

  She should go home now, she knew. She could explain to her mother what had happened. Her mother would have a funny story to tell her about a story she had read. Her father would look up from his computer and shake his head.

  But it was so cool here in the barn. So inviting. So forbidden.

  Meg stepped further into the barn’s interior. Although it was dark, sunlight snuck in between the barn boards, spackling the walls with lines of light. Her eyes had adjusted to the light and Meg could see the rows of empty stalls that stretched all the way to the end of the barn. In the winter the stalls would be filled with cows. But it was summer, when the cows spent their days and nights meandering outside, grazing on sweet grass and clover. Must be a couple hundred feet of cow stalls, one after the other.
Meg would ask her dad. He knew that kind of thing.

  She turned and walked along the inside wall, past the birthing pens, in the direction of the parlor. Poking her head through an open doorframe, she saw the source of the manure smell. Several cows stood together at the far end of the barn, shifting on hooves, in the cool darkness. This room too had long rows of stalls. Meg tried to imagine it in the cold months, the open space filled with the breath and stench of cows.

  To her right, sunlight slanted through a square opening in the barn ceiling.

  The entrance to the hayloft.

  Her dad had played there as a boy, living on the hill. Sometimes at night, he would tell stories from the barn, before Mom shushed him.

  Standing directly under the opening, Meg tried to see into the room above but could only see part of the vaulted ceiling. She had seen Mr. Bank’s workers loading hay bales on a long elevator ramp that dumped the bales in through a second story door.

  No one would think to look for her there. It would be the best place to hide.

  She stepped forward, slipping on something on the floor and nearly falling into the muck. She looked down. It was a rat, a very dead rat, slippery with blood. The barn cats had probably caught it earlier.

  Meg stepped over the carcass. Above, the light from the hayloft beckoned.

  Meg grabbed hold of the makeshift ladder, short boards nailed to the wall, dark with age. Spider webs clung to her fingers as Meg lifted herself up each step. One loose board gave way, a loose nail that fell to the floor. Meg caught herself and continued to climb.

  Now, eight feet up on the ladder, nearly level with the hayloft floor, Meg stepped off the board and into a rectangular room. The hayloft ceiling stretched above, its highest rafters lost in the shadows.

  Meg looked around. This was so different from the rooms below. Hay bales were everywhere. Hay bales lined the walls, seven and eight bales high and two or three bales deep. Along one wall, the bales stretched almost all the way to the rafters. Late afternoon light pierced slim gaps between wallboards, painting the opposite walls with lines of light. Dust motes rose on warm air currents.